The Question

by Jane Asher

  Susan knew exactly what the rosiness in her mother’s face signified and it sickened her. The images that had confronted her on the many occasions when she had crept unheard into the sitting room or bedroom were blistered on her mind’s eye, and the ensuing evidence in her mother’s face had become only too well known to her.

  ‘What’s it got to do with you who I’m talking to? And why should he suddenly care about seeing me? Tell him to piss off.’

  On the other end of the telephone line Eleanor heard, acknowledged and smiled.

  ‘Oh Susan, really, you mustn’t speak to me like that. What has got into you, dear? Come and say hello to your father right now and don’t be so cheeky. You know what he’d do if he heard you talking like that, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ll come when I want. Now leave me alone, I’m on the phone.’

  Eleanor could just hear the closing of the door and the rustle of bedclothes as Susan settled her body back down onto the bed, but took care not to let the intense pleasure she was feeling creep into her voice as she spoke loudly into the receiver in order to get the girl’s attention.

  ‘Susan! Your mother’s quite right; you really mustn’t speak to her like that. You mustn’t speak to anyone like that. There are far more gracious ways of expressing your frustrations, you know. “Piss off” is a phrase I shall hope to persuade you to abandon in the future.’

  Susan laughed out loud and rolled over onto her back.

  ‘Now, Eleanor, what’s this mysterious thing you want to ask me?’

  ‘You’ll think me completely crazy.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t. I trust you, you know that. You wouldn’t ask me anything wrong, I know that. Go on – ask me.’

  ‘Well – oh dear, this feels ridiculous suddenly. I – I’ll just say it, that’s the best thing, and then you can completely ignore it and never mention it and that’ll be a good way of letting me down gently. I wondered if you’d ever consider – ever think about – changing your name?’

  There was a silence on the other end, and Eleanor held her breath and could feel her heart rate make a sudden and rather startling increase.

  ‘Change it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you know – use another name.’

  ‘What, my surname, do you mean? Why?’

  ‘No, not your surname. Of course not your surname, that’s what you were born with and it’s your real name and it suits you,’ (and me, she thought wryly). ‘No, I meant your Christian name. It just doesn’t seem – oh dear, this sounds rather rude, but I don’t mean it to be – it doesn’t seem to quite go with your personality, or with the way you look. Especially now.’

  ‘What a weird idea. I—’

  ‘Don’t say another thing, Susan. You’re quite right, it’s weird. Just forget I ever mentioned it.’

  ‘No, wait a minute. I didn’t say it was—Well, so what would I change it to?’

  ‘I wondered about Sophie. It begins with the same letter, so you wouldn’t have to worry about initials on things and all that. And it just seems more elegant for you – more beautiful. More charming.’

  ‘It’s a bit poncy, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know.’

  ‘Sloaney? Is that an expression you’d use? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Something like that.’

  ‘Just forget it, Susan. It’s only a bit of fun. A daft idea of mine. Now I’ve got exciting plans for next week, so don’t be late.’

  ‘Can I ask you something now, Eleanor? As weird as you asked me?’

  ‘Of course. Anything.’

  ‘Was my dad a twin?’

  Eleanor felt a jolt of fear shoot through her. What did this mean?

  ‘No, Susan. Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s not important. I just wondered.’

  But they were both left with unanswered questions, and both of them thought long and hard about why they had been asked. As Susan sat watching television with John and Barbara later in the evening, she found herself mentally playing with the idea of being a Sophie. A Sophie Hamilton. It sounded rather good. Was it going to be like the makeup, which had seemed so wrong at first, but which now gave her intense pleasure every time she caught sight of herself in a mirror?

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, Susan?’

  Her mother’s voice crashed into her daydream, the word ‘Susan’ as spoken in the question overlapping uncannily with an imagined ‘Sophie’ in her thoughts.

  ‘Pardon? I mean what? What did you say?’

  ‘I said do you want anything to eat? Or a hot drink before bed?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Thanks.’

  Her mother’s gaze returned to the television screen and Susan watched them both for a moment before she spoke, resting her head on her knees and thinking hard.

  ‘Mum,’ she said at last, ‘who thought of my name? Who thought of calling me Susan?’

  ‘What a funny question! I really can’t remember. I expect it was both of us. John, do you remember how we came up with Susan’s name? I remember we talked about it for a long time, but I’m really not sure how we decided.’

  ‘It was you, Barbara,’ John answered, grunting as he reached forward to put his empty glass down on the coffee table in front of him. ‘Don’t you remember? I wanted something a bit more Victorian-sounding, like Emma or Sophie or one of those sort of things. But you were so keen we decided to go with Susan. It was you.’

  ‘Oh well, there you are, Susan. You’ve me to thank, dear.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Susan quietly. ‘Yeah, I see. It figures.’

  ‘What a funny girl you are!’ her mother laughed. ‘You sound quite miserable about it. What does get into your head sometimes, I shall never know, Susan. Now why don’t you get yourself to bed, dear? You’ll be exhausted in the morning.’

  But Susan lifted her head from her knees and looked at her with such cold scorn in her eyes that Barbara looked quickly away and down at her hands, cringing inwardly at the humiliation she somehow sensed she had been led into unwittingly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  John sat back in his chair, his face the colour of cold porridge and his eyes sunken back into his head in shock. His mouth was slightly open, and a tiny bubble of saliva hovered between his lips at one side, shimmering in the light from the window as it trembled in time with the minute twitching of one cheek.

  ‘Did you really think I could be so stupid?’ said Eleanor. ‘Did you really think you could have gone on with your ludicrous, dirty little double life without my having not only known about it all these years but allowed it? Condoned it as something to keep you out of my way; out of my bed for as much of the time as possible?’

  ‘Eleanor – no!’ John whispered. ‘No, don’t – I can’t bear it. I could only keep on with it because I thought I was able to do it without hurting you, without you knowing anything about it. I can’t bear to think that—Oh God, I just can’t bear to think that you knew; that you’ve put up with it all this time. So patiently. So uncomplainingly. Can’t you see that I would have given anything, anything to get out? To be with you all the time. To be rid of that silly tart and her bastard daughter.’

  ‘Oh now, John, come on. That’s not very gracious, is it? The silly tart – well, yes, possibly. I have to say I can’t quite concur with your taste there, but—’

  ‘Oh, but it’s not my taste, darling. It’s truly not. One stupid mistake and I’ve paid for it all these years. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved or wanted. You must know that. I adore you. I want you. I need you.’

  ‘—but the daughter: well, there, John, I may say something that will surprise you. Sophie – I assume you’ve noticed that she now calls herself Sophie?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course I have. But – was that you? You mean that was you? Is that why she’s become so – different. Elegant. Well spoken?’

  ‘Of course. And I have decided, John, that we shall adopt her. I am well on the way towards making her
the daughter we never had. We shall bring her up as our own, and the—’

  ‘Oh yes, darling! Yes! You angel!’

  John had flung himself onto his knees now and was making as if to kiss the hem of Eleanor’s skirt when she realised she was wearing trousers. Damn! she thought, and quickly changed herself into a rather attractive chiffon evening dress with a ballerina-length skirt. Perfect height off the floor for kissing. Now, where was she? Oh yes, John had just flung himself at her feet, and she was about to graciously allow him to re-enter her life and carry her off to the bedroom. But the mood was broken, and the picture stubbornly refused to rematerialise in her head.

  She abandoned the image and tried another one. The quiet, humble wife. Expecting nothing, asking for nothing. The simple and unquestioning acceptance of her husband’s infidelity so unbearably moving that she saw John sitting at the table where they had just finished dinner with tears in his eyes, leaning forward in the candlelight and grasping her hand.

  ‘You are the most wonderful wife a man could ever wish to have. May I dare to hope that you will stay with me? That we can spend the rest of our lives together? Oh, my darling, forgive me, forgive me. Let me love you as you deserve to be loved.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive, John. I’m the one who was at fault. I didn’t give you what you needed. I’ve been too busy with my committees and my charities and all the design work I did for you. I’ve not been there enough for you.’

  ‘Oh darling, don’t say that! You’re so caring; so sweet and selfless. All the people you help – all the kindness you show to everyone. I’ve been so selfish. So unbearably selfish.’

  ‘I think it might be better, John, if we said goodbye. You owe your child your time and love. She needs you. And Barbara. I have to let you go.’ (Yes, that’s good, thought Eleanor. I like that, that’s very good.)

  ‘No, darling!’ John had leapt to his feet, a look of horror and despair on his face. ‘No, don’t leave me! Don’t ever leave me! I can’t live without you – can’t you see?’ (Oh dear, no. That’s getting even a little too much Mills and Boon, thought Eleanor. Try that one again.)

  ‘No, darling!’ John had leapt to his feet (yes, all right so far), a look of horror – (OK, and – and what? Maybe not despair. Maybe just suffusing love. Yes, yes that’s better –) a look of suffusing love on his face. ‘Eleanor,’ he said seriously, ‘you must never leave me. Don’t you understand that if you leave me I shall die? Life without you is unthinkable. I can’t live without you (careful, you’re slipping back). I never want to live without you. I love you. (Oh yes, oh yes!) I love you, I love you, I love you.’

  Eleanor rolled over in bed and sighed. The endless daydreams were coming closer and closer together now. She could feel herself fast approaching the moment when one of them would become reality. So near. She was so near now to being ready. John, Eleanor and Sophie. That was her future now, she could see it clearly. A loving threesome until the time when Sophie would marry. And marry well, of course, she would see to that. Barbara could be paid off, or shipped out or given work somewhere far away – whatever is done with discarded mistresses. Eleanor wiggled her shoulders in delight. That was a good phrase. She would use that one again. Discarded mistress. Like an old pair of socks. Worn out. Threadbare. Smelly.

  She suddenly sat up in bed. as a startling and exciting thought took hold of her unexpectedly. Today. It would be today. She was ready.

  John felt impatient and irritable. The annoying scene with Susan – or Sophie, as the ridiculous girl had insisted on being called for the last couple of weeks – had jangled him. What was he supposed to do, for God’s sake? He couldn’t work flat out at the office all day and then be expected to sort out all the girl’s problems as well, could he? In any case, it was quite evident she didn’t want to be sorted out. She seemed perfectly happy to him, and even though he could see she was communicating less and less with him and Barbara, he had to admit it made life far more peaceful when she wasn’t pottering in and out of the sitting room demanding attention as she had in the old days. If it wasn’t for Barbara’s obvious anxiety, which made him feel he should be doing something about it, he’d be quite happy to leave well alone. Last night’s little argument was becoming typical: her mother insisting she come in and greet him when he arrived home, and the two of them then finding they had really very little to say to each other, resulting in the inevitable recriminations and insults which merely served to widen the gap between them. He really must have another word with Barbara about letting the girl go through this difficult period on her own. A little more space would be good for all of them.

  He was driving a little too fast, he knew that, but the satisfaction of feeling the easy response of the BMW’s engine to his demand for just that bit more thrust than usual was irresistible, and he used the feeling of power to counteract the impotence he felt in his musings about Su – Sophie. He would arrive home a little earlier than usual, too, and with any luck catch Barbara on her own and bury his head in her breasts and let the strains of the day dissolve in her accepting, warm caresses. He shifted in his seat as the image began to excite him, and he pressed his foot a little further down on the accelerator as he crossed Marylebone High Street.

  There was no way that the driver of the blue Sierra could have known about, or avoided, the large BMW that shot out of the side turning. The young man twisted his head in a reflex of terror as his instinct warned him in a millisecond of the approaching crash, but even as his brain began to send the signal to his foot to slam on his brakes, it was too late, and the impact of the combined forces of the two cars drove the steering wheel deep into his chest. The impetus was enough to send it crushingly into his ribs, which in turn bent themselves inwards, far enough into his chest to puncture fatally the heart that had been working so efficiently for twenty-one years. The nose of his car was buried in the side of the BMW, and the two horns combined in a blaring wail as the artery leaked relentlessly into his chest, filling it slowly but inexorably: drowning him in his own blood. His head rested on the steering wheel; the pink nape of his neck exposed where the hair lifted forward over the clean whiteness of his shirt collar.

  John was still. The driver’s door was crushed in on him sideways, and he too had his forehead resting forward onto the steering wheel. But he was breathing. Just.

  Eleanor was getting out of the bath when the phone rang. All day, since the momentous decision taken in bed that morning, she had been carefully planning every move, and the bath was to be the prelude to slow, careful dressing and a drive up to the London flat. She would almost certainly get there before John returned from the office and she would invite Sophie to join her, revelling in the girl’s surprise at finding her dear aunt just two floors above her, watching her amazement at seeing how different the same flat could look when cared for with taste and style.

  And then – the great moment of confrontation; Sophie at her side. Two elegant women offering him the chance to start again, to be forgiven, to make it up to them. And later: John’s hands on her breasts, his mouth whispering in her ear, his hips pressing against hers. And below, two floors below, the woman sitting alone, knowing she has lost him for ever.

  She hummed a little as she wrapped herself in a towel and meandered over to the telephone, catching a glimpse of her pink-cheeked face as she passed the bedroom mirror and throwing it an acknowledging smile. As she moved to pick up the receiver she felt nothing but optimistic confidence, even cockiness, and answered it with a brightness that was soon to echo horribly inside her head. In the terrible minutes that followed she couldn’t believe that she hadn’t known, that the ringing of the telephone hadn’t somehow conveyed to her the sinister truth in its apparently innocent sound, that nothing had warned her that her life was about to be turned upside down for the second time.

  By the time she reached the hospital she was numb with the shock. Images cartwheeled through her head as she walked towards the accident and emergency department, the indefin
ite details she had received from the brief police call not giving her enough information to formulate any clear picture of what she might expect to find. It was serious; very serious. That much had been made only too clear. But he was alive – probably. Oh God, no – not probably; that was too cruel. He had been alive when the policeman had rung. They wouldn’t have lied to her. But he could have gone, slipped away, while she was on her—No, he mustn’t, he couldn’t die. She wouldn’t let herself even think it.

  She made her way quickly through the rows of chairs towards the desk and took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her impatience as she waited for the large black woman in front of her to finish her request for someone to attend to her cut hand. Get out of my way, you stupid woman, she mentally screamed at her. Can’t you see I’ve a matter of life and death here? Take your pathetic little injury and move out of my way.

  ‘I’m here about my husband. John Hamilton. The police phoned me and … I’m sorry—’ Eleanor had to stop as a gulping sob shook her voice uncontrollably and choked her attempt to continue.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘John Hamilton,’ she went on, shaking her head to surprise her body into being able to speak without succumbing again to the lump of horror rising in her throat. ‘He’s been involved in a – he’s been involved in an accident. I’m his wife.’

  ‘Just a minute, please. Could you take a seat for a moment, Mrs Hamilton, and I’ll fetch someone to help you?’

  ‘For God’s sake – don’t you understand, you stupid girl? My husband may be dying and I—’

  ‘Just calm yourself for a moment, please. I know you’re upset – just please take a seat. The sooner I can find someone to help you, the sooner we can get you to your husband. Sit yourself down in the first row there and I’ll be back to call you in just a tick. I promise.’